Pithmaking

12 Dec

 

I do not measure
my heart in sunrise
and sunset,
though the glory
of colorcoming
and lightleaving plays it’s part
in the drama of days.
But in leaf and limb,
inhaling and exhaling.
In spans of inevitable green
and glorious gold
before fallingdoubt and near deathsleeping.
I learned to love
from oaks
who know this secret,
a faith coded into their ringbones
repeating return.
They keep the soft velvet
beneath,
the touchbend and retreat
from sky, a clockcase
full of
freedom and foreboding.
Yet adore the sun,
like a fickle lover
here one day, gone the next,
needing and abiding equally.
Damned delicious sun!
Longing is to sigh again, green.
What can they do
but live,
dressed in lush love
or bear quiet cold
in naked dignity.
till his return?

Hourglass

29 Nov

 

 
Bed,
blanket and bundle.
At my back
a ball of breathing
black pillowdog,
a warm cocoon against
the cold coming day.
They say
be happy right now.
Not to wait
or time will run out.
So I am happy for this half
of the bed
that holds me.
And  dream chill stillness
slows the seconds
for the other.

Grandmothers

20 Nov

 

I wonder

what happens to

women wizened and wise,

those bent inside their

cottage and fence.

Were once, they fae?

To dance fields of flowers

seems an awful bargain to

absent the flesh of rocking cradles.

To have pockets filled of

dustwishes to give,

but not for use.

What of her own

when there is nothing left

inside paperhusk and rind,

past fruitfulness?

Two wells for eyes,

the color of

knowingwater.

Is that why they sigh?

To rock the ache away?

To be a sentinel of time,

the herald of fate,

scissors dangling from red ribbon

clipsharp ready,

full of lessons learned

like a compass needle toward

Mother and our inevitable return.

Are they not healers

of earthly souls?

Some say a magic far

greater than desire.

Would they not remind us

to hold a warm child tight,

the beloved other

to touch in the night?

A soft pillar of persuasion,

serving tea

and sacrifice.

Extra Longer

5 Nov

 

 

Things I hope you will love
extra longer:

Sitting in dark velvet quiet,
popcornpeeringready,
another world flickering and blue in front of you
both hand in hand,
remember the feel of rough fingers
like the bended fold
of a thick linen envelope.
Entwined arm in arm,
save the date of the moment and
linger longer
than you might,
one moment maybe
just for me.

When the shower
cascades in percussive rounds
like a trembling cahone
off the rock of his beloved body,
listen a little longer
to water
singing the curve
of a road often traveled
by your once hot heart.
Catch the last note of the
stream like the intoning bell
calling All to notice. . .
notice,
notice,
this moment,
each one your gift.

Gather one drop of water,
for me.

By the nape of his neck,
let your eyes fall like autumn shadow
over the dark slope
of tender openness.

Let your view drape across
muscle bending toward the heat of collar
and brave bone.
Lean in.
Place your mouth there
extra longer,
tasting the gratitude in sweatmaking.
Roll onto a nightslept pillow
full of scent and salted musk,
breath him
in like a Second Coming.
He’ll return.
He always does.
Have you noticed,
not?

So when your hand finds the moss
covered cage of sinew and heart beat beneath,
listen a little longer
for the rest of us;
our longing hovers above you

like a haint blue porch ceiling
whispering,
whispering,
Don’t you dare forget a miracle.
Cause you carry dreampromise
in your limbs and loving
like an autumn wind

warning the fury of frost
and lost leaves.

Taking Space

4 Oct

 

Five out of twenty nine.
As if with each caulked casement
leaving there is more room,
the air itself a rushing
love for lungs to drink.
Each cracked pane, each broken rope, each curling lip of lead
paint wrapped, carted away.
Wavy panes of perceiving
held together by bracing and time,
removed. Each day,
while I’m not watching.
Sometimes you don’t watch.
You lie still
and notice
when the house is opening,
and the dreams are leaking out somehow
like breadcrumbs for the Divine
to follow, gather,
and bring back to your bed
like lovebreath whispers
in the early light.

Quizzing Glass

24 Sep

Her eyes said to the professor,
Why don’t you stop studying me and
be with me.
And then she was grateful
to have become so very
alive,
not something buried then
unearthed,
a curiosity for
cataloguing.
But like a live oak,
limbs and leaves flush with green,
hung with soft sighing hair,
he was just unable to see
beyond the glass
in his own.

Texts Not Sent #57

18 Sep

 

Begins so casually.
Is there a Biscuitville where you are?
she starts to type.

And do you like
egg, cheese, and tomato buttered biscuit
Sunday midmornings
after coffee, after pajamas, after loving,
curving together half a dream in soft
tangles of limbs and lips,
after the first waterblue moment of quiet room,
noticing that three inches
from the bareness of
the back
of your neck
there is heat and beating heart under
the vulnerability of skin and vein
alive with the sound of oceanbreath…

Her thumb above the arrow.
And memory quietly said,
not to.

It is Good

13 Aug

We will not let hate win

 

It is good.
It is good to see and to be seen.
It is good to hold and to be held.
It is good, this heart like a low long river
washing the soul clean to its raw lining
like the side of quivering fish.
It is good to feel the promise in cleanness,
in the sting of what was.
In every broken bit there is one conscious atom
beginning to pull toward the mending line.
It is good to cry, to wet the shoulder, the hand, the sleeve,
let it travel out to salt sea
where the elephantine roll of the darkdeep unknown
will toss it’s misted curl to the sky
and dissolve itself into stillness.
It is behind your eyes, this close fearlove
I kiss your cheek.
You kiss mine.
Both are wet with ocean.
And it is good.

This is for Anyone who has Ever Lost Someone

10 Aug

This is for anyone who has ever lost someone:

You do not own the leaving.
You share loss
because you are loved.
Loss
spreads it’s watery wake
like a quilt over a coffin.
Too little comfort over a container
of what
needs answering before it’s buried
to dissolve.
It’s not that people really tire
of your long grief,
a slow low dissonant hum of unraveling.
It’s that the fraying of this patchworked shroud between us
reveals edges of other coffins,
slowly decaying in the corners
of their own heart’s attic.
They’d rather not see.
They’d rather not feel.
You do not have to get over it.
Only wait for there to be
nothing left but holy dust
on the shrine of your soul.
One day a gentle wind
will shift ever softly
and be enough.

On This Day: Facebook

10 Jul

I wonder.
Eventually, does one carve
the jade of the heart
into something beautiful?
Or is there some alchemy,
some elixir
that lifts
layer by layer
the stony cast of streaked green
revealing some pale promise of flesh
willing to flex
again.

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